Horse Problems
by Hawk wing
Summary: Oneshots detailing the "joys" of working with horses for our poor assassins. Each chapter a new oneshot.
1. Oh the Joys of Young Horses

Has anyone noticed that the horses in AC are so well trained? Asides from the annoying invisible barrier issues in AC2, they're such well mannered horses. I especially love the teleporting ones in AC: bro. So I'm doing a series of oneshots that will all be posted (whenever I get them written) in this little story as new chapters. Anyone who's been around horses know that they're not the well trained perfect little angels games portray them as.

These oneshots are the forgotten snippets left out of the AC games. Enjoy :3

(The three dots represent time shift and all that jazz)

Disclaimer: me no own AC...sadly

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><p><strong>Oh the Joys of Young Horses<strong>

Altaïr's been cooped up in Masyaf too long. Far too long for his liking. Yes, things had calmed down since his Cyprus adventure about two years ago, but that was two years worth of babysitting (both his own son and the entire novice fleet. He had yet to decide which task was worse, but today it was leaning towards the novices), as well as administrative duties of the entire assassin operations for this side of the Middle East. (Malik seemed far more than just delighted at Altaïr's return those two years ago. The accelerated course in administrative basics he gave him right after that seemed to swell the man's ego as well.)

And, of course, speak of the devil.

"Altaïr," Malik stepped into the room. "Rauf has compiled his bi-monthly report on the novices." He held up a stack of papyrus that seemed, to Altaïr's exhausted eyes, as thick as Malik's log book. Oh how he hated that log book. But that was another story.

"Do I have to read it now?" He rubbed his eyes and sat back.

"No, but it would be well advised to read it within the next couple of days. I'm not helping you if you don't." He raised a warning brow.

"Fine."

Malik dropped the sheets on top of the two columns of books he had already stacked on his desk.

"Altaïr." Maria poked her head in. "A minute? Or is Malik still discussing something?"

"I have more I need to say," Malik started. "But it can wait till later this evening."

"Good." She walked in and stood, hands on hips, in front of the desk.

Malik smirked behind her back as he left.

Altaïr wished the man would stay and take some of the brunt of what Maria was about to rant on this time.

"You look tired," she commented.

"As usual. This work just never ends."

"No, but such is the duties of a leader." She walked around and draped her arms around his neck, leaning her head atop his.

Altaïr would've relaxed oh so happily into her embrace, if it weren't for the warning gong pounding away in his head. She had walked in and stood that way in front of his desk. And now she was doing this? "What is it now?" he asked.

"Why do you ask such a thing in such a weary, grudging tone to your wife? Maybe I just wanted to be with my husband?"

He absentmindedly stroked her forearm. "You had your hands on your hips earlier and now you've wrapped your arms around me. I'm not blind. You want something."

She smirked and kissed his temple through his hood. "Such perception. So you think you've figured me out?"

"Only the warning signals that tell me when I should be extremely cautious."

She hummed. "Maybe you were wrong this time?"

"I know I'm not."

"Oh really?"

He heard the challenge in her voice. "You forget my profession. I know everything that goes on in this city."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And also Fahd informed me of your tirade in the armory earlier."

"Ugh!" She stood and paced in front of his desk. "That little traitor."

He smirked and leaned against his right hand. As shocked as many in the compound were when he returned with her, let alone announced that she was his wife, many still didn't quite understand why he married her. Yet her little rebellious outbursts from the norms had slowly captivated him – and still do.

"What is so hard to understand about the usefulness of us women in fighting?"

Except for when it was an age old argument they had gone over and over time and again.

Maria continued to rant and pace in front of him. She had tried convincing many of the older assassins of the usefulness a woman would pose as a fellow assassin. Not herself being an assassin (which Altaïr was thankful she didn't try and push as her Templar background had already caused him some headaches from the older generations), but the fellow women in this city. She wanted to get them just as involved in the workings of artisan work as well as assassin work. Altaïr agreed that women could be just as good as many middle ranked assassins (he had his own wife for example, but she had yet to beat him in any sparring match, and he would never let her win. Her anger and continual drive to defeat him was so sexy, although he wouldn't admit it).

But convincing the older generations, as well as the traditionalists, was – yet again – the road block. She wanted things to change now. He had to delicately dance with those stubborn mules on getting women into their ranks. She thought he wasn't moving fast enough and was trying to start things herself. It was causing more problems for him. It was an old argument.

…

He was tired. Who would blame him? From deciphering Al Mualim's journals, to working with the apple, to reading Rauf's (boring) reports, to Malik adding yet even more work on top of more work, to Maria's ranting earlier in the afternoon. Yes, Altaïr was indeed tired.

And he needed out of there.

But it's not like he could just get an assignment and leave. He had tried that early on after returning from Cyprus, only to have Malik berate him loudly upon his return and throwing all administrative duties on him for a week while he himself took a vacation. Not a fun experience.

So, instead, he found that taking one of the younger horses out for a ride around the area was a good enough distraction and breather. Or as good as he would be allowed. Some days he would say fuck it and take one of the older horses out. They wouldn't spook as easily and were better trained. But a sense of duty had him taking the younger ones more often to train them more. The only way to truly train a horse fast enough on trail riding was to expose it to all it'll encounter on a trail.

Today's mount was an ever cliché sorrel colored mare of about 5 years of age. She worked willingly and quietly in the training area, moving to all his commands quietly. Each gait she kept nice and paced. A good mount, but the real test was out on the trail.

He guided her towards the gate, and a novice opened it. "Safe travel," he called out as he closed the gate.

Altaïr nudged her into a trot and kept at that pace until the path diverged. Common sense counseled him to take the wider, more used track. There were less obstacles that would eat a horse. The other path led up and along the rolling hills, not through the valleys between them. It was an obviously unused path, and as such, more unkempt.

The mare had remained calm and alert the entire time he had been working her, and his day had been stressful, and he was tired of that boring overused track. He wanted a change of scenery dang it, and so chose the less used path.

She moved beautifully. There were a few times where he had to coax her into passing through a dense brush area, but she went willingly…after hesitating and trying to decide if there was a horse-eating bunny of doom in those bushes or not.

A flock of birds had taken off nearby and she startled, but didn't bolt or even move from her place. Altaïr was becoming more impressed with her as the evening wore on. For such a young horse, she was quite calm. He was even bordering on considering her to be a possible decent trail mount in the future – one better suited for the assignments that took assassins out into the wilder regions than from city to city.

They crested a hill and he noticed the sun. It would be nearly gone by the time they returned to Masyaf if he turned around now, but not before taking advantage of the open field up here. The hill had flattened out slightly and was wide enough to work some drills with the horse. Working the drills in the safety of the training area was one thing. Out in the fields, an entirely different aspect.

He walked her around the area, checking for any holes in the ground and seeing how she would react near the lone tree that marked the hill's descent on its other side. Satisfied, he nudged her into a trot and circled her, backed her, stopped her, asked for sharp and wide turns, asked her to move sideways. Everything went smoothly and she gave him little fuss in responding to his cues.

He threw in transitions into and out of cantering into the drilling. She was a bit grumpy in going into a canter and when transitioning down, she liked to forgo the trot and go straight for the walk (to which he mentally rolled his eyes and muttered about females).

Content with what she had given so far, he decided one more wide circle of going from a canter to a trot would be good before turning around and heading back. He cantered around the side of the hill, looked towards the tree and directed her towards it. Half way there, he asked for the trot and she slowed, but kept going down to the walk. Before she got there, he squeezed with his calves and she picked it back up to a moderate trot. Satisfied, he turned her back to Masyaf.

And then the breeze knocked a leaf off the tree.

It was there and then that Altaïr rediscovered how hard the ground well and truly was when it hasn't rained in forever, especially after a horse bolts out from under you.

He remained on the ground, cursing swords for being made of pure, solid, really hard metal; cursing grass for not feeling like pillows; and cursing horses and their damn stupidity.

He glared at the mare only a foot away, calmly grazing as if nothing had happened. "Really? A leaf? The bushes threaten, the birds fly, but you bolt on one little lowly leaf?"

She cocked an ear at him, noticed him paying attention to her, and walked over. She sniffed his hands, nuzzled the leather belt, and then stopped on his face and inhaled deeply.

And then snorted.

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><p>So I never really intended for an AltxMaria scene...it just wrote itself in there. The woman was persistent in being seen with her husband.<p>

And beware the big bad leaves for they will slice you in half!


	2. The End of the World at Every Bend

**The End of the World at Every Bend**

A wise man once mentioned that riding (pertaining to horses, mind you) was the art of keeping the horse between you and the ground. Ezio added on that anything with horses was a mind game, beyond any type of art. Any person well acquainted with, and constantly working with, horses should've been considered a master.

Convincing them that not everything was a dangerous monster was hard work, and convincing them to be around anything scary to them was far harder than working mind games on learned scholars or following heavily guarded, leery targets.

Take his current situation for example.

He's the most wanted man in Venice as the Doge's death has been pinned on his head and all the rest of the annoying politics and hullabaloo, and he just wanted to go somewhere safe to rest and figure things the fuck out, thank you very much.

A small assassination mission from Medici seemed like a welcome escape to let things settle in Venice, and give him a change from all the annoying bickering and minute detail work. He knew something was up as getting out of Venice, and even the entire trip to the mainland, plus some time on the mainland, was uneventful. He was a man who attracted problems like fresh shit attracted flies. Not even two minutes on the ground and it's covered – unless it was the dead of winter to which even the flies say "fuck this" to coming out into the cold. But that's an entirely different tangent.

No, he was quite sure something was going to happen. And it sure as hell did.

That "thing" is what brings us to the present: Ezio, lying face up on the packed path, currently assessing whether or not his butt is indeed broke.

The cause of Ezio's situation is currently somewhere back down the path half scared out of its wits with a broken rein.

The perpetrator in all this mess from Ezio's point of view: a normal, innocent bend in the path that had bushes on the inner curve blocking the sight around them and further down the path.

The perpetrator in the horse's point of view: OMFG! A JURASSIC SABOR-TOOTH MOUNTAIN GOAT FROM HELL IS BEHIND THAT!

As one plus one inevitably equals two, the situation inevitably unfolded as thus:

Ezio and horse were calmly and quietly walking towards the bend. The horse stopped. Ezio tried to coax it on. It took two – maximum three – calm steps before coming to the conclusion of imminent death by bushes, whirled around faster than a trained assassin could see and leaving man with no beast between him and the lovingly padded ground.

As Ezio's bottom embraced the earth, the horse in his haste had caused his reins to slip low enough for one to be within reach of a front hoof. Two plus two equals four: the horse stepped on said rein, throwing his entire weight into the bit, thus spooking him more. He backed into a tree trunk, which spooked the hell out of it even more. (Trees are now rabid jackalopes, mind you). In his haste to escape this do-or-die situation, he came up with enough sense to whirl around and take off at full speed with broken reins being stepped on every third or fourth step, adding more to his fear.

And so we're back to where we started: Ezio lying on the ground assessing his ass.

Yes, those who put up with and worked, let alone trained, horses had best be considered more than just masters.

And the one who trained this horse had best die, and die soon. He would attend to it himself, if it weren't for his broken butt.

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><p>I'm sure many of us who've worked with horses are quite familiar with this type of situation :) I know I sure as hell am. Had this happen twice within the same damn week last year and landed on the same spot on my body both times. It realigned my sacrum (the area in the hip above the tail bone and all). Not very comfortable. Might have broke something too as it hurt to sit for a few months as well, but the stupid doctor didn't do any x-rays -_-<p> 


	3. The Duck Walk

_(update Nov. 21, 2011: just fixed a little grammar mistake. A 'd' slipped in where he shouldn't have been. Sorry for the spammation of notifications. And I bet I lost the reviews I've already gotten with this chapter after I re-upload it -_-)  
><em>

**The Duck Walk**

Think back on a day you've had recently that you woke up happy. Basically in a serene mood. The one where your day just can't be ruined. Such a beautiful day. Light breeze. Sapphire sky. Warm morning. The pets greeting you happily (when do they not?). You decide, what the hell, why not spoil yourself with a decent breakfast better than just the lame bowl of cereal or poptart. Why not waffles? Or French toast. Just be sure to make enough for your brother, otherwise you'll never hear the end of it for the next few days. Even though you have stuff to do today that isn't on your greatest things of all time list, your day just can't be ruined. Oh such a pain that serene feeling is. Those who've experienced such a feeling right when waking up know it's a bad omen for a horrible day to come.

The car won't start because the damn battery is dead. You're beyond late for work as a result, or a test, or a class period before said test – take your pick. So you finally get the damn vehicle started – battery charger hooked right up to it and waiting a good 30 minutes before it'll fully turn over and start, called a friend to jump your car, whatever works for you.

But you hit every red damn light there is. It's like some goblin knows you're coming and flips the damn signal.

I know how you feel.

The rest of your day? Let me guess…I don't even want to know, right? Yup, thought so.

I know we've all had at least one day like this. Don't you just hate it? Your stress ball or damn it doll has most likely long since surrendered and yet you're still harassing them.

Why don't we take a look at things from Altaïr's perspective.

A decent morning of fruit and bread. Nothing fancy, but the fruit was a bonus. Quite refreshing, in his opinion.

After some morning stretches quietly in the bureau garden area, undisturbed – just the way he liked it – he figured to make a final run around town before heading back to Masyaf, see if there was anything note-worthy to eavesdrop on.

The streets were already busy, the morning already warm, but he didn't have to hurry about. He wasn't needing to hide. He could just casually walk. A nice change.

But those damn muscles were still slightly cramped. A good run wouldn't hurt to stretch them out.

And, behold, a ladder conveniently placed in an alley. Just for him. How nice of some daft fool.

And daft fool be the one to climb them recklessly, as our dear Altaïr found out. Three-fourths the way up there was a rung not completely tied on, which he found out too little too late.

Muscles were cramped.

Muscles now bruised.

Back freshly popped.

Boy that sky is blue.

He slowly inhaled, trying to regain his breath after successfully testing out his skeletal shock system by falling nearly a story and landing flat on his back. Nothing was broken, all was in standing order…just horizontally…and painfully.

And that sky sure was blue.

After laying there long enough for a couple kids to come over and poke him, he was finally on the roofs, but not running. Oh hell no. His butt hurt. He wasn't running. Nuh uh.

"You do not belong up here!"

Aw hell.

And the damn guard was too far away to accurately throw a knife. Why didn't he just have a crossbow? It's not as if the guards already distinguished him from the monks. What's a little crossbow going to do?

"Get down, now!"

Can't the damn man see from his hobble that climbing down wasn't exactly going to work?

"Infidel, die!"

And now he had to run. Joy.

That old tailbone area just doesn't like to work when it's hurt. Just pin a yellow beak and some tail feathers on him, and he'd make a decent life-sized duck. Add wing feathers and he'd be a rabid duck careening towards the edge of the roof.

But the one thing not good about this new species of duck was that it wasn't very meaty. Quite sinewy and tough to chew. Try telling that to the guard though. The dumb man still tried to shoot it.

His first arrow nicked Altaïr's thigh, causing him to fall. He got back up and resumed his rampage towards the side, launching across as another arrow whizzed right by his side. The jolt of the landing forced a curse out as he continued on.

Some time later and in a roof garden, Altaïr laid and wondered why the fuck did he get on the roof to begin with? But did he dare use the nearby ladder?

His twinging butt assured him that should he attempt any wall scaling for the rest of the day, he would enjoy it immensely. And so the ladder it was.

He waddled over.

He looked down.

The crazy man below laughed.

Did he really dare use the ladder?

He looked at another ledge.

He turned towards it.

His butt twinged.

Cringing, his butt encouraged him on: Only a truly courageous man would brave descending a ladder with a crazy at its base.

Altaïr was no coward.

And so he started climbing down the ladder. The crazy had walked away, but halfway down, he had turned and was stumbling back towards the bottom. Part of Altaïr was urging him to go faster, but another was advising no quick movements as they sensed fear. And so he chose the happy middle and continued casually down.

A quarter of the way left, he had to stop and let the crazy pass by. It seemed the man hadn't seen him. Altaïr breathed a sigh of relief.

The man jerked violently and stumbled into the ladder.

"No- no-no-no-no-n…" The ladder fell and he landed on his side.

His injured leg spasmed in pain.

His butt gave another twinge.

And the ground sure was brown.

Then he heard the crazy start shouting. He didn't wait, but started rolling until he got his feet under him. The man shoved into him, causing him to roll to the ground again, but eventually he was able to waddle out of the alley, but not without smelling the man's breath a few times.

Throbbing with pain and wondering if his poor nose was killed, he decided to say fuck it to information gathering (that's what the rafiq's informants were for) and just go back home.

He was able to get what little items he needed from the bureau. The rafiq questioned him, but he just grunted back and left.

The city gates were tricky, but he thankfully got through relatively easily. Hiding his hobble and waddle from the guards was a different story, but they let him be.

He wasn't looking forward to the ride back, but it was faster than walking. He picked his horse from the stable. It was obviously an assassin one, or so the rafiq's stable boy said.

The boy tied the mare outside of her stall before running off to finish his other chores. Altaïr took his time brushing and saddling her. He secured his supplies and led her outside.

She stood quietly as he adjusted the stirrups. He double checked the girths, double checked his weapons, and put his left foot in the stirrup.

His butt twinged and he waited a second to let it calm down and then lunged into the saddle…

…or tried to.

The saddle rotated sideways the instant he put his weight into the stirrup.

The result: he lost his balanced and fell backward and down on his oh so tender ass.

Boy that sky sure was blue.

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><p>I can't get the image of Altaïr flailing about like a rabid duck out of my mind. Too funny.<p>

Ever had a horse who would puff out when saddling up, only to deflate when you go to get on? It's a lovely old horse trick. Sadly my mare knows this trick and she's only 8. But she doesn't deflate when I go to get on. She does when we first start out. Makes my saddle about two notches looser. I, for the life of me, couldn't figure out for the longest time when she released. But the day I did, you should've seen her face. I got on and figured I'd test the girth tightness by going right into a trot (because that's when I'd feel it was loose), and sure enough, it was loose like no other. So I just reached down and tightened it right up. She had a look like a spoiled kid denied his cookies. And then she tried to give me the "ow ow ow" trot as if the saddle was hurting her shoulders when it was sure as hell off her shoulder blades. She was trying to get me to get off and adjust the saddle which would allow her to do the same thing again. Didn't happen. Her look was priceless. She's never really tried puffing out ever since.

It's a pain having a smart horse -_-


	4. Snail Masseuse on Your Nether Regions

School killed the muses and so I haven't been writing at all lately. But I want to get back into it. So here's another one-shot. Doubt it's as funny as the others but meh. And it looks like I'm going to have to create some covers to a few of my stories...

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><p><strong>Would You Like a Snail Masseuse on Your Nether Regions?<strong>

A long ride on a hot day. Yup. Just what every _dottore_ recommended. It would've been fine if it weren't for the damn humidity. The lovely all embracing humidity. It would've been even better if he wasn't urgently needed back in Rome. How can one hurry in this heat when even breathing is taxing?

He leaves a place for just a few days to do a menial task. Machiavelli had taken a slight vacation with a few other members of the upper echelon of Rome, but Ezio figured things would've been ok even without the other man. There were already a handful of the original trainees that were masters. What could go wrong? Masters were supposed to be able to handle tasks on their own and adapt quickly. The Mentor shouldn't have to be there to hold their hand, right? Wrong.

His trainees needed him urgently, according to the messenger whom he left behind to finish taking care of his original business.

Hopefully the young man could handle that since he was able to successfully give Ezio a message in time. If he – gah! He didn't want to think on it. Just get to Rome. His one goal….or at least the end goal. Not going mad over the incessant, mutant, biting flies was a current occupation.

One would think that a hood would keep the majority of the flies away from his head. One. Would. Think. But no! Noooo. They liked to fly into its recesses and get trapped in there, constantly buzzing around his ears, biting his neck, and attempting gymnastics on his eardrum. He had had enough! Fuck the hood! The sun could burn his face for all he could care. At least the damn flies wouldn't purposely trap themselves around his head with it down. The Templars were doing a fantastic job with their pet flies and he swore to himself he would hunt down the fly-keepers and _persuade_ them from doing their job oh so effectively after the matter with his novices was taken care of.

If only he could've done something more for the poor beast under him. The horse was twitching and stomping at flies more-so than walking. It didn't help that the thing was drenched in sweat, which attracted the horseflies, those damn mini-Templars.

But just a little farther ahead was a small river. Just a little farther and he could stop his mount there for some respite. For the both of them. Hell, he could see the water lazing along right now.

The horse did also and stopped dragging its feet.

There was no need to coax it through the water. It walked right into the middle of the rock-lined ford. It would've dutifully continued forward if Ezio hadn't have stopped it there and gave it its head to drink.

They sat there for a few minutes. The horse lazily drinking, Ezio constantly shooing flies away. Then the horse shifted. Ezio tensed and was graced with soaked hems.

The horse pawed hard into the water, drenching its belly and Ezio's legs. He rolled his eyes and relaxed.

After letting the beast play a few more minutes, he urged it towards the opposite bank, planning on dismounting there and cooling off himself. It took a few good taps and talking, but the horse eventually minded, stepping onto the opposite bank…only to drop its head and start pawing at the mud.

Ezio tried coaxing its head back up, but the horse ignored the bit and paced forward, head still sniffing the ground. He gave a sharper tug with the right rein, trying to get its attention, and that's when he felt the lurch.

It was a small shift. But with horses, as Ezio has the painful pleasure of knowing, there's a small shift, and then there's a _small shift_. He tensed, waiting for the animal to bolt, buck, slide, rear, do something, anything that the small shift forewarned.

The animal tucked in its legs and no matter how much Ezio tried to tug its head around to keep it unbalanced and up, it ignored him and commenced falling. He pulled his legs up and rolled out of the saddle as the horse landed on the ground.

It didn't stop there. Oh no.

It kept on rolling. And rolling. Grunting with each wiggle back and forth, crushing the saddle underneath it. After a final complete roll, it lunged back to its feet, gave a great shake, chewed on its bit, and looked over at Ezio with a look as plain as day.

'I feel so much better. What are you doing over there?'

Ezio's look, on the other hand, was murderous. Oh the horse felt fine now. Good for it. But he was NOT riding the rest of the way back to Rome in a saddle stuffed with fetid river mud and god knows what else had called that mud home. Snails crawling on areas they should never be on is not a pleasant feeling.

No, his ass was staying sweat covered only, and snail and leech free thank you very much. No matter what people said, shit covered pants were not in fashion, and the Mentor was not about to start such a trend, even if it was only mud. Nope. He was walking.

Laughter erupted. Ezio spun. Not far up the path was a small contingent of guards in Roman colors.

"You're horse seems to be a smart one, _signore_."

Ezio scowled. "Smart, but ill timed."

"But the flies aren't bothering him now, yes?"

One of the other guards was frowning at him.

"So it would seem," Ezio replied. He noticed the one's look and glanced at his now grazing horse.

"I do hope you don't have much farther to go. Cleaning dried mud off of tack is a pain."

The frowning guard pulled a parchment piece out of his pocket and unfolded it.

"Matteo, what is it?"

The guard went wide-eyed and reached for his sword. "It's him! Assassino!"

Ezio cursed and lunged towards his horse. He hopped into the saddle and turned it as butt squelched into mud. The guards hollered behind him and mounted their own horses. Ezio spurred his on and cursed. Fuck balancing and a sturdy saddle. Mud mad an excellent lubricant and he could feel the tree partially broken tree underneath him.

Mud also made a beautiful stain for whites.

But that was nothing to him at the moment. Oh no. It was all the slimy cold soaking through his pants. He just knew he'd be picking snails off before the night ended. He hoped it was snails only and not leeches.

The novices were going to die.


End file.
